


i hate that i don’t hate you

by themarvelousmaize



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fix-It, Geralt Apologizes, Geralt is a good dad, Jaskier is basically Ciri’s step-dad, M/M, Post-Canon, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Smut, Some pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-22 16:09:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22566076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themarvelousmaize/pseuds/themarvelousmaize
Summary: And as they enter what should have been an empty library, Geralt’s senses are immediately assaulted with the sound of a voice he recognizes all too well; one he didn’t think he’d ever hear again; one that brings a strange tightness to his chest.“Jaskier,” Ciri breathes, taking Geralt completely by surprise as she runs towards the bard.Or: With Ciri finally in Geralt’s care, they seek temporary refuge at Oxenfurt Academy while on the run from Nilfgaard’s soldiers - and promptly run into Jaskier.And Geralt is surprised to find out that his Child Surprise knows Jaskier very well.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 115
Kudos: 4275
Collections: Finished Fics I Love





	i hate that i don’t hate you

**Author's Note:**

> written to “hate you” by ingrid michaelson

Ciri has not been with him a full moon’s turn before Geralt realized that Nilfgaard would not stop coming after his Child Surprise. 

“We need a new plan,” he grunts after taking his sword out of the belly of a particularly persistent Nilfgaard soldier. Geralt doesn’t relish the idea of killing humans, but this one had actually succeeded in getting his hands on Ciri and his vision had blackened at the edges, his entire body demanding retribution. 

Ciri wraps a hand around his arm, peering up at him. His other hand automatically goes to cover hers. He’d never been much interested in outward displays of physical affection, but with Ciri he just can’t help himself, the instinct to father and protect and comfort greater than any potential misgiving. Yet another barrier his child of Destiny has just completely blown past. “What do you suggest?”

“Sanctuary. At least for a while.”

“Are there places that still offer sanctuary?”

“Not many. But I know of one nearby.”

It’s how they end up at Oxenfurt Academy by nightfall the next day, Geralt rapping firmly on the gates of the school. A disheveled and disgruntled scholar opens the door, his expression immediately shifting to one of surprise when he meets the golden eyes of the Witcher. “What-”

“We need sanctuary,” Geralt cuts in.

The scholar’s eyes flit from Geralt to Ciri, who has the hood of her cloak pulled tightly above her head. She manages a brittle sort of smile, and the scholar begins nodding his head rapidly, opening the door wider. “Yes - yes of course. Come on in.”

They follow him inside, crossing the small courtyard and into the darkened hallways of the school. Everything is quiet - the students, scholars, and staff retired to bed long ago. 

“Would you like something to eat or drink, Witcher? What about you, child?”

Geralt glances at Ciri, who shakes her head with a murmured, “thank you,” before turning his gaze back onto the scholar. “If you could just show us to some sleeping quarters. Anything small - we don’t want to impose.”

“No imposition at all. We have some rooms just beyond the library over there…”

The scholar’s voice fades into the background as Geralt picks up the faintest sound of a lute being played. His feet stop almost of their own accord, planted in front of the door that must lead into the library. 

“Geralt, are you alright?” Ciri asks.

“I’m fine,” he replies, absent-minded, moving towards the library in big strides, something deep and instinctual compelling him. To the scholar, he asks, “Is someone supposed to be there?”

“Not that I know of, but the professors make use of our rooms at all hours of the day -”

Geralt doesn’t wait for him to finish his explanation; his hand is already flat against the door, pushing it open. 

As he steps into the library, Ciri close in tow, Geralt’s senses are immediately assaulted with the sound of a voice he recognizes all too well; one he didn’t think he’d ever hear again; one that brings a strange tightness to his chest.

He spots him immediately, sitting atop a table in the center of the room, strumming on his lute and humming to himself. He looks exactly as Geralt remembers - with a face still unfairly youthful, eyes an electrifying shade of blue, and thick brown hair falling in delicate wisps over his forehead. Geralt’s heart twists with an emotion he cannot name as he gazes upon the bard he’d cast aside, just a year ago. 

“Jaskier,” Ciri breathes beside him, taking Geralt completely by surprise as she runs towards the bard, the hood of her cloak tumbling down.

Jaskier turns at the sound of his name and his blue eyes go wide; sucks in a startled breath. “ _ Ciri, _ ” he says, nearly tripping over himself as he rushes to meet her. His lute falls unceremoniously to the floor - and Geralt is hard-pressed to remember even one occasion where Jaskier has favored  _ anything  _ above his prized instrument - and Jaskier’s arms enclose around Ciri’s shoulders as hers entwine around his waist. “Darling, you’re  _ okay.  _ I heard about what happened - gods I’m so sorry I went  _ looking  _ for you -”

Ciri is smiling through watery eyes. “It’s alright, I escaped.”

“This is going to sound absolutely horrid but I’m so relieved to hear that,” he sighs, and kisses the crown of her moonlit hair. His expression grows somber. “Listen darling, it’s a long story but there is someone out there Destiny bound you to and we have to go  _ find him  _ now _.  _ He’ll keep you safe.”

“You know Geralt?”

“I -  _ you _ know Geralt?”

Ciri gestures backwards with a tip of her head, her eyes knowing. “I  _ found _ Geralt. And Geralt found  _ me. _ ”

Jaskier follows the movement to the entrance of the library, and blue eyes lock onto gold as he finally spots Geralt lurking beside the tall bookshelves by the door. His entire posture stiffens. Even from the distance, Geralt hears the slight stutter in Jaskier’s heartbeat; can smell the distinctly sweet and sour mix of surprise.

“Geralt.”

His tone is flat even as his eyes narrow and turn stormy. Geralt swallows against the bitter, acrid bile of regret. “Jaskier.”

******

Ciri picks up on the tension permeating through the room right away. Her eyes alternate between the two men - notices the bard’s locked jaw and the unmistakable hurt coloring his features; picks up on the Witcher’s simultaneous discomfort and desire to reach out in the way he curls and unfurls his hands uselessly at his sides. There is history here, that much is clear. A history that’s been tainted by pain. 

“What’s going on?” She asks, and the question seems to snap Jaskier out of whatever turmoil of emotions he must be feeling. 

“Nothing that matters now, I don’t think,” he replies, and Geralt feels a tightness, a riot, in his chest at those words. “It’s late and - please don’t take this the wrong way, darling - but you look like you could use some sleep. And a bath. In that order.”

Ciri flushes, but there is a small smile curling at her lips. “And how am I supposed to take that?”

“With the love you  _ know  _ I have for you, little one. Come along, let me show you to your room. I assume you were being taken to the ones nearby, yes?”

Jaskier talks animatedly as he escorts Ciri, and Geralt’s heart twists with a pang of nostalgia so fierce it hurts to breathe for a moment. He follows a few steps back; observes the subtle ways that Jaskier fusses over his Child Surprise - a soothing hand through her curls; a gentle squeeze of her hand; a reassuring arm around her small frame. Watches the tension melt from her shoulders, her eyes light up, more relaxed and at ease than the Witcher’s ever seen her be.

The conclusion is both obvious and so incredibly jarring. Somehow, some way, his bard not only got to know his Child Surprise, and she him - 

But that they have come to love each other, unabashedly, openly. 

Even now, after all this time of knowing the bard, Jaskier continues to completely disarm him. 

“Here you go, darling,” Jaskier says, popping open a door made of aged wood. “You’ll sleep here. Geralt will sleep in the room right next to yours. There’s a washroom connecting the two, although rest assured there are curtains for privacy.” Jaskier does not look at Geralt once, eyes firmly planted on Ciri. 

She smiles, warm and grateful. “Thank you, Jaskier.” Then, just above a whisper, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

His expression softens into one of pure, unadulterated adoration. “Me too, my love. Now - off to bed you go. And take that bath in the morning.”

“Yes, alright,” Ciri laughs. She stands on her tip-toes; bestows him with a soft kiss to the cheek. “Goodnight, Jaskier.” She meets Geralt’s eyes; smiles at him so softly and so sweetly. “Goodnight, Geralt.”

Geralt walks up to her. Tucks a curl of moonlit hair behind her ear. Her smile widens at the tender gesture. “Goodnight, Ciri.”

She shuts the door behind her with a quiet click, leaving Jaskier and Geralt alone for the first time in a year.

The tension that suddenly permeates the atmosphere is almost suffocating. Geralt’s mind and heart are a mess of riotous questions and emotions swirling around. Jaskier is silent, for once, his eyes planted firmly on the floor, lips pressed together, and an icy stone lodges itself in the Witcher’s gut.

He has to say something. He recognizes that. Jaskier has always been the one to reach out - to meet him halfway - but today, the gesture must come from him.

He has no idea what to say.

He settles on:

“How do you know Ciri?” 

And it is clumsy, and not the right thing by  _ any  _ stretch of the imagination, but all other words seem to be lodged in his throat. He’s never claimed to be good at this. 

Jaskier’s startlingly blue eyes snap to him, and Geralt can see the flicker of surprise there - and the Witcher’s heart gives a lurch - before a mask of impassiveness slots back into place. The bard sniffs. “Not that I owe you any explanations, Geralt, but in between our travels I spent a considerable amount of time at Queen Calanthe’s court. I wanted to see for myself how your Child Surprise was faring. Grew very fond of her. She’s quite something isn’t she?”

“You kept tabs on her.”

“One of us had to.”

Geralt almost flinches. “I know better now than to stand in the way of Destiny. Ciri -”

_ The girl in the woods will be with you always. _

“- will be with me always.”

Jaskier fixes him with a long stare, saying nothing. Geralt is unused to this more silent, more deliberate, more guarded version of the bard. He wonders if this is the product of time, or something else, and Geralt finds himself not for the first time wishing he’d done better by him. 

Finally, Jaskier, speaks, “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

Geralt is surprised to note that the bard is entirely sincere. There’s even something he would  _ call  _ pride in the bard’s eyes. Geralt hesitates for just a moment. “Jaskier -”

Agony briefly twists Jaskier’s features. “Take a bath before you go to bed. Unlike Ciri, I don’t think you can afford to wait,” he cuts in, lips curling into a weak smile. Softer, his voice barely above a whisper, he adds, “You don’t need to do this, Geralt.”

“I know.” The Witcher swallows around the sudden weight lodged in his throat. “But I would like to. If you’d let me.”

“I -” Jaskier’s expression crumples. “You’ve made your feelings about me quite clear once already.”

“I was out of line.”

The quiet admission is only met with silence, and Geralt is on unstable footing here.  _ Jaskier  _ is the talkative one between the two, the one who wears his heart on his sleeve, and speaks his emotions into being. 

The thought that  _ he’s  _ the one who’s robbed the bard of his basic nature roils Geralt’s gut; draws bile at the back of his throat. 

“I cannot take it back. I know that,” he tries. “But allow me to apologize.”

He watches Jaskier close his eyes and sharply exhale. Geralt can smell the conflict of emotions rolling off the bard - the coppery scent of hesitation; the sharp citrus of hurt; the sweet smell of  _ hope.  _ He holds onto the last one with a desperate voracity that should disquiet him but doesn’t. 

Finally, Jaskier opens his eyes. “Go take a bath, Geralt.”

Geralt very nearly staggers. “Jaskier -”

“Tell me in the morning, Witcher,” the bard cuts in gently. “In the morning when the shock of running into me has worn off. So that I might let myself believe you mean it.” 

Geralt’s throat feels too tight all at once. He tips his head once. “Alright.”

He watches as Jaskier leaves, feeling a most curious mix of accomplished and defeated at the same time.

* * *

The next morning, Geralt wakes with the first light of dawn. 

Restless and with a nervous twist in his gut, he walks in the direction of the courtyard, towards the stables. He checks on Roach, feeds her some carrots, and runs fingers through her mane; fixes up her saddle and takes her on a short ride around the campus. Oxenfurt is sprawling, a truly gigantic feat of architecture, and though Geralt enjoys exploring the grounds with Roach, he still feels...trapped, almost. A large cage remains a cage, wrapped in pretty paper. 

The sun has fully risen, the sky a clear blue, when Geralt leads Roach back to the stables and makes his way back inside. 

He finds Ciri already awake and in the dining hall where other students and professors are gathered for breakfast. She’s sitting next to Jaskier, her smile wide, and talking animatedly in between bites of bread and cheese. They’ve both yet to notice Geralt, but even from the dining hall’s entrance, the Witcher can hear what they’re saying. 

“I still cannot believe you know Geralt.”

“You know, if it wasn’t for Geralt I would not have known you, darling.”

“ _ Really _ ?”

“I was there when he claimed the Law of Surprise.”

“How come you never told me?”

And her tone isn’t sad or accusing, just curious. 

“Your grandmother, may the gods rest her soul, did not want you to know, my love. And I couldn’t go against her, much as I wanted to. You and Geralt are bound together by Destiny from now until the end of time. That is not a bond you want to go against.”

“It’s so strange. I’ve known Geralt for such a short amount of time and yet I feel...that I love him already. Very much.”

And Geralt’s heart beats infinitesimally  _ faster  _ at the quiet confession. 

“Jaskier - do you think Geralt will take care of me? Always?”

“Yes,” he replies with no hesitation, and Geralt’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Geralt is a man of honor. He is a  _ good  _ man, a kind man, even when the world has been neither good nor kind to him. In that respect, you have nothing to fear. You, my darling Ciri, are in the very best hands.”

Geralt chooses this moment to make himself known, walking over at a brusque pace. His expression is schooled into one of casual impassiveness, but inside, his gut is a bottomless pit of confounding emotions, his mouth is dry, and his mind is racing. 

To still have Jaskier’s undying faith that he is honorable,  _ good  _ even, after this excruciating year - after the poison he spewed - has Geralt’s stomach cannibalizing itself with  _ regret  _ and  _ confusion  _ and  _ wonder  _ and  _ hope.  _

They both stop talking as soon as they spot Geralt, two sets of blue eyes simultaneously snapping up to him. Ciri’s are bright and welcoming while Jaskier’s are - Geralt’s mouth is still too dry - inscrutable. 

“There you are, Geralt,” Ciri greets. “I was looking for you this morning.”

“I went to check on Roach,” he replies, helping himself to a generous plate of food. “I’m sorry if I worried you.”

He thinks he sees Jaskier’s eyes soften at the apology, even as Ciri reassures him that she was fine. 

The next several minutes pass in relatively companionable silence while Geralt eats, even as he debates with himself how he should go about apologizing. 

Ciri ends up helping him along. 

“I think I’ll go have that bath now,” she says, standing up. Her mouth curves. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

As soon as she leaves, the atmosphere thickens with tension and electricity. Jaskier is silent, fiddling with a piece of bread, breaking it into smaller morsels. 

Geralt fixes him with a pointed look. “I’d like to talk now. If you’ll let me.”

The bard meets his gaze head on, unafraid. The Witcher detects the faintest whiff of sweet lavender rose - the unmistakable scent of hope. And begins to dare to do so. 

Finally, Jaskier nods. And says, “Okay. Let’s walk and talk.”

* * *

They end up somewhere in the gardens, surrounded by bushels and plots of roses, tulips, buttercups, and peonies. 

It’s not exactly sweltering, but the sun is out in full force. There’s a bead of sweat trickling down Jaskier’s temple as he unbuttons his delicate periwinkle doublet, revealing an off-white chemise underneath. Downy chest hair peeks from underneath the collar and the sight stokes...something from within the deepest recesses of Geralt’s gut. 

“I’m sorry,” the Witcher says gruffly and without flourish, diving headfirst as he is often wont to do. “I was unfair. My words were harsh and unwarranted. I was angry and you were,” he closes his eyes, “an easy target. But you must know - I meant none of it.”

He doesn’t usually talk so much. And it’s hard, to adequately try to capture his remorse into words. He hopes that, even though a year has passed, Jaskier is still able to read between the lines; pick up on the nuances he’s trying to convey. 

The bard’s throat bobs and he inhales, sharp. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “I suspected as much but it’s - it’s good to hear you say it.”

Geralt blinks. “You’re...not angry,” he says, slow and uncertain.

“No,” Jaskier huffs out a laugh. “I’m not angry. Maybe I was at first. But I knew you were hurting. People lash out when they’re hurt. I was more upset than anything that time passed and you did not try to find me. I started to think...maybe you did mean it.”

“I did not. I swear it.”

“Huh. And when did the realization strike you?”

“That evening,” the Witcher admits. “I saw things clearer once I wasn’t quite so...hot-headed.”

This is a difficult admission. But Jaskier does not tease, only cocks his head a little, thoughtful and curious. “Why didn’t you try to find me?” he asks with a whisper, something so fragile and soft in his voice that it wrenches at Geralt’s heart; calls to his soul. “I’m not that hard to track down, surely.”

“You aren’t,” the Witcher concedes with a slight curve to his mouth. “But I...did not think you would want to see me again.”

Jaskier’s eyes  _ melt  _ and  _ soften,  _ and in the clear sunlit sky they look even  _ bluer _ . There’s a smile so gentle and so sweet on his face that it quickens Geralt’s breath and makes his heart hurt, but a  _ pleasant  _ sort of hurt. The bard crosses the small distance between them; places a hand on the crook of his elbow and tilts his head up so that his mouth is level with Geralt’s ear. 

And says;

“Well then, my dear Witcher, you simply haven’t been paying attention.”

* * *

Things between Geralt and Jaskier are...good. They almost seamlessly slot back into their regular banter, as if no time at all has passed; as if Geralt hadn’t, in a blinded fit of his own pain, hurt the one person who has ever called himself his friend. 

Almost.

There’s a tension between them now; it’s new and different and, if Geralt is honest with himself, not entirely unpleasant. It’s like the electricity from when Jaskier’s lips had brushed  _ so sweetly  _ against the crook of his ear had sparked  _ alive _ , and it’s everywhere, coloring all of their interactions. 

It manifests itself in looks full of meaning, secret smiles, and touches that linger longer than is strictly necessary, setting skin aflame. 

A lesser person than the Witcher might call it  _ flirting.  _

Ciri notices - how can she not - but does not ask. She only seems pleased that they’re getting along so well. 

They’ve been at Oxenfurt nearly a fortnight, and Geralt notices the unease and disgruntlement from a growing number of academics. They will need to leave soon. This has always been inevitable - sanctuary, whatever solace it is able to grant, has always been but a temporary solution to a persisting problem. 

And yet, the thought of leaving Jaskier behind once more fills Geralt’s chest with unpleasantness. He thinks about asking the bard to come with them, and finds himself apprehensive in a way he usually isn’t. Yes, things are good, and Jaskier may have well forgiven him for his transgression. But that does not mean all is forgotten. 

Geralt swirls around his mug of ale, a little sullen. Up on the stage, Jaskier is entertaining with a bevy of jigs and saucy ballads. He looks especially sweet tonight in a turquoise doublet with matching trousers and gold detailing, topped off with a jaunty turquoise hat. The color makes the blue of his eyes come alive as he steps off stage and twirls around the hall as he sings, accompanied by a trio of raucous musicians. Ciri is delightedly clapping along and Jaskier shoots her a wink. Geralt’s chest tightens. 

“That was marvelous, Jask!” she says after the band concludes and the bard seats himself beside them once more. 

Jaskier grins. “Yes it was, wasn’t it?” he replies, the cocky little shit, and his grin widens when Geralt can’t resist an amused snort. “I always forget how delightful performing at Oxenfurt is until I come back. Nothing quite like being amongst a crowd of like-minded peers.”

“You enjoy it very much here, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, very much,” the bard confirms, and the knot of doubt and apprehension in Geralt’s gut coils itself even tighter. “Although absence is what makes the heart fonder I suppose. Say, Geralt, where will we be headed towards?”

“Kaer Morhen,” the Witcher replies reflexively, having given their destination much thought. The birthplace of witchers will easily be the safest place for his Child Surprise. He can train her there, make her stronger, harness the gift he strongly suspects she has inherited from mother -

Then he blinks. And runs back what Jaskier said in his mind. “We?” he echoes dumbly.

Jaskier’s expression is positively wicked. There’s a flicker of something dark and promising in his ridiculously blue eyes that shoots straight through Geralt. They’ve been hurtling towards a point of no return - a dimension of their relationship Geralt is eager to discover - and as Jaskier, irreverent as ever, cocks his head; says, “Yes. We. Is there a problem, Witcher?” archly, hooded blue eyes daring and uncompromising and unafraid - 

“As long as you can keep up there won’t be any, bard.”

\- Geralt knows Jaskier wants to tumble over the edge with him. 

* * *

“ _ Geralt _ .” 

The Witcher greedily catches another keening moan with his lips. “You have to be quiet,” he murmurs, even as the tethers of his own self-control grow weaker. “Or they’ll hear us.”

Jaskier is gasping and writhing where Geralt has him held up against the door. “Who gives an ever-loving fuck if they do? Oh -  _ oh  _ \- right there.” 

Geralt’s vision  _ tunnels _ , and he growls, sliding hands underneath the bard’s thighs and  _ lifting  _ him up. “Gods, the sounds you  _ make _ ,” he groans, his voice rough and  _ wrecked  _ already as he turns and throws Jaskier onto the bed.  _ Fuck it _ , he thinks. The walls at Kaer Morhen are reasonably thick and besides, if any of the remaining witchers happens to hear - let them. 

He crawls atop Jaskier, caging him in between thick arms, and feels entirely like a predator who trapped his prey. 

By the way Jaskier’s eyes darken and licks his lips, Geralt knows the bard very much enjoys being caught. 

They’re kissing again - a glorious mess of lips and tongues and teeth - and Geralt can feel himself grow hotter, more impatient, desperate to have the bard naked underneath; to touch and be touched. “Up,” he commands. Jaskier lifts his up arms obligingly and Geralt removes his chemise, throwing it carelessly on the floor near where the vermillion doublet ended. 

“Bit bossy aren’t you?” Jaskier remarks breathlessly. He drags Geralt back on top as soon as the Witcher divests himself of his own shirt, whispering in his ear, “Lucky for you, I like being ordered around in bed.”

Geralt’s brain sort of short-circuits at the admission; feels himself harden. He manages a raspy, “hm,” and files that information away for later. Right now, he’s laser-focused in getting Jaskier naked and moaning. 

It’s not yet clear to him what the catalyst was tonight, of all nights. Ciri has finally grown used to the grueling training and - under Vesemir’s watchful eye - is becoming handier with a sword. Soon, they’ll be tracking down Yennefer to help the Child Surprise learn to control her magic. The witchers have all grown accustomed to the bard’s presence - some, to Geralt’s endless bafflement and amusement, even expressing their  _ enjoyment  _ of his songs. 

Jaskier had performed a medley of them tonight. 

Perhaps that was the catalyst, Geralt thinks to himself, as he watches Jaskier impatiently kick off his pants; brings hands to undo the laces of his own and peels them with a near frantic eagerness. Jaskier always offers up an intoxicating performance - all flirty stares, suggestive lyrics, confident movements. 

All the Witcher knows is that he had taken one look at Jaskier in his vermillion doublet and matching pants, and decided that tonight was the night he was going to fuck the bard within an inch of his life. 

“Geralt -  _ oh, fuck _ , Geralt,” Jaskier keens, back arching wantonly, hands scrabbling at Geralt’s back, drawing him nearer, trying to find purchase where there is none. Geralt bends down; sucks another bruise into Jaskier’s neck. A primal part of him is absurdly pleased at the collection of red and purpling marks dotting the bard’s throat. Let everybody in the gods damn  _ Content  _ know that Jaskier is  _ his.  _

“Say my name again,” He murmurs.

Jaskier huffs out a laugh, flushed everywhere. “You would enjoy that,” he says, as Geralt reaches for the bottle of lavender oil he keeps in his pack. Jaskier watches him from beneath thick lashes, chest heaving and skin dewy. Geralt opens the bottle with his teeth, discarding the cork, before coating his fingers with the slick oil.

“Say it,” he commands throatily, fingers reaching into the darkest, most intimate part of Jaskier. The bard lets out the most  _ delicious  _ of sounds - a cross between a sob and a whine - and it goes directly to the Witcher’s cock. He grinds his teeth, nearly groaning with all the sensory input - the spicy, musky smell of lust coming off Jaskier in waves, combining with the unique mix of primrose, sandalwood, and rain that is the bard’s and the bard’s alone. 

Jaskier mouths at the air, blunt nails digging into Geralt’s back, drawing him nearer, encouraging him on. “Yes, yes,  _ yes,  _ Geralt, just like that,” he breathes. “ _ Gods,  _ Geralt just - don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

The next few moments pass in a blur. Geralt is impossibly hard, rutting against Jaskier, desperate for friction, as he continues to work him open, coaxing more beautiful sounds out of him and murmuring nonsensical words of encouragement against the shell of his ear. 

Jaskier is panting, pupils blown wide. He surges forward, catching Geralt’s bottom lip between his teeth. “Get  _ on  _ with it, Witcher,” he begs. “And don’t hold back. I want you to  _ wreck  _ me. Want to feel you for  _ days _ .”

“Fuck, your mouth,” Geralt groans, growing hotter and more desperate. 

Jaskier’s grin is cheeky, suggestive. “Maybe later,” he purrs and Geralt’s vision sort of, just,  _ fogs  _ with lust and  _ dear gods _ , he is going to fuck that little bard’s brains out now and tomorrow and every day from now on as often as he pleases. 

He retracts his fingers, more hastily than he would’ve liked but he’s barely hanging onto his control by a thread as it is - though he does enjoy the breathless gasp of surprise Jaskier lets out. He lines himself up, and fixes Jaskier with a look full of meaning. 

Jaskier only smirks, twines his arms around the Witcher’s neck, digs his heels into Geralt’s backside and urges him on. “ _ Now _ ,” he moans.

And well - Geralt has no choice but to comply.

He’s fairly sure his mind goes  _ blank  _ as he sinks slowly into velvety  _ wetness  _ and  _ heat.  _ It feels like no time and an eternity passes before Jaskier whispers, “ _ move _ ,” and Geralt gets to work bringing them both to new heights of pleasure; 

Unabashedly enjoying Jaskier’s enthusiasm;

“Ah,  _ yes,  _ fuck, the way you feel -”

Egged on by the way Jaskier meets him thrust for thrust;

“ _ Harder _ , Witcher, I know you’re holding back on me -”

The way he smells;

How he feels;

The absolutely  _ broken  _ sob he lets out when Geralt finally,  _ finally _ , wraps a hand around the length of him; groans out a commanding, growling,  _ wretched _ , “ _ sing for me, Jaskier,”  _ as he hurtles them both over the edge, Jaskier’s keening whimper absolute  _ music  _ to his ears.

Geralt collapses in the spot next to Jaskier, breathing heavily, body  _ sated  _ and  _ humming _ . He’s looking at Jaskier openly and unashamed, enjoying the sight of kiss-stung lips, marked neck, and the thin sheen of perspiration coating his entire body. 

“That was…” Jaskier’s voice trails off, for once without words. 

“Good?” Geralt supplies wryly. Jaskier slaps his arm and Geralt laughs, low and throaty.

“You’re insufferable you know that? I hate you.”

Geralt smirks. “No, you don’t.”

“No,” Jaskier concedes all too easily. His blue eyes glitter and his smile is wicked, and the sight makes Geralt’s heart expand. “I really, really don’t.”

  
  



End file.
